Her hair, blazing out like a solar wind gracing about the dimensions of the universe, coarsed rigidly as to crease and glide away into nothingness, a simple yet expected gesture from such a woman: skin of ash and sugar mixed into one tenebristic flesh that defies the laws of physics by rising every bit that her body descends. Her visage was formidably intricate, built as if the Impressionists of the 19th century met the Cubists and Dadaists, in a unified despotism, and painted floating clouds with aged clotting blots of wined-blood.
This woman was nothing short of diabolique.
Her eyes gleamed like the frozen arms of a mortal caught in a glacial storm, clawing out for help as the world closed in, immobilizing him.
Suddenly, she stepped out of the darkness of the cornered rose bush wall and began to stroll across town, breasting the horizon as her destination.
She walked as if dancing to the most rhythmic of swan songs, one step forward, two steps back, one arm forward, the other placed firmly upon her vacant chest. No. She walked as if her feet were but shards of glass, steel punishment rods, stiletto heels growing out of her feet like claws on a beast's paws.
As she strolled by, incandescently, gazing through the most hellish of grounds towards us: the lonely, the pleasure-less, the flesh-ridden, the convincible but feeble starving humans with a will the size of a shrunken, collapsed star, I could not help but wonder how it was that she came to be such a vile venomous creature.
Instantly, at the dawn of my wonderment, my mind was flooded with distant memories of a woman tied to a stalk of wood, screaming out at some golden orb, yelling for attentiveness, clawing out for control. “I am an angel of grise, of mutiny and preciousness. I am an ambitious entity, an endless wall of arms touching side by side, a layer of thick and flourishing consciousness, a perfection bred from perfection. You! You are nothing but an empirical God, one who achieves perfection through imperfection, or imperfection through perfection. You are a calculated being, predisposed, a finite wall of bleeding hearts all clueless as to how they even got there or as to what they are supposed to conceive! You are but a celestial whisper, a creationist, a determinist, a brooding, non layered mantle and core that forgot to include his own core in his most vulnerable of creations!”.
Her body suddenly appeared flattened upon the dimensions of the endless grounds of the heavens, bleeding into them like a liquid into its designated flask. “Hold your words my dear” the orb spoke back with such diligence, “they shall be but your greatest of companies in the land I bestow to you, my twisted one”. Slowly, she dripped into the inconceivable, the parts of the universe so vile that a human would bear a parasitic, inescapable darkness in its presence.
Her body lay flattened against the new magnanimous granites, and she looked afar into the emptiness, dug her hands into the rotting dirt, and stuffed a handful into her mouth until her lips bled the blood of all to ever hold a light of existence. “If this be what you think of your twisted one, so be it. I shall epitomize this of what you misconceive, this accidence, the grandest of disposals.”
As these images flashed before my eyes, my body violently strained, veins bulging out like cables dipped in a pot of dripping tar. I soon began to convulse, arms pointing towards all directions at once, unreasoned, yet somehow convinced to be subconsciously intentional.
“Adoration” she whispered, as her crimson red blush appeared before my presence. Her face pressed against mine, she held my hands until my lungs need not oxygen to breathe. And so I slept, tortured, and whispered “I am tired my angel, so tired of this emptiness” into her tunneling ear canals. She turned to me, placed her hand against my forehead and whispered back “You are home, my child, and tired never again shall be”.